Where balsams droop their fragrant boughs
And ferns their fronds,
Below Katahdin idly drowse
The little ponds,

Until the southwind calls, “Awake!”
Or paddles ply,
Or trout come flashing up to take
The scarlet fly.

The little ponds are bright and clear
And soft of brink;
And after twilight when the deer
Come down to drink,

And in their mirrors, coldly pure
The moon is shown,
The moon, each little pond is sure
Loves it alone.

Let not the little ponds be told
That every night
On countless ponds as clear and cold
Their moon is bright!

They do not guess that such things are
For good or ill—
The strange high ways of moon and star;
And still, and still,

When hushed feet cross the beaver-dike
And stars are strewn,
Each little pond, Endymion-like,
Enfolds the moon.

And so the little ponds are glad:
They keep their dream
From wintertime when chained is mad
Katahdin Stream,

Through autumn when the maple-tree
Is crimson-leaved.
Oh, happy little ponds to be
So well deceived!